


Daemonological Studies

by Red



Series: ACD by HDM [1]
Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: A Study in Scarlet, ACD Canon, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Daemon, Daemons, Gen, Pre-Slash, the crack that is HDM crossovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-24
Updated: 2007-03-24
Packaged: 2017-11-02 11:31:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/368545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red/pseuds/Red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The start of my obsession with HDM crossovers, written back in 2007. Early in their relations with Sherlock Holmes, Watson and his daemon ponder the nature of the constant interruptions to daily life in Baker Street.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daemonological Studies

It was an aggressively stormy February day that I found myself, for the fourth time in as many days, confined to a loathsomely dull and solitary afternoon in my bedroom. I had with me the morning paper, but it held nothing so intriguing as the goings-on in the room below me, and I soon found myself staring distractedly out the window. Unable to take in the sight of London surrendered to the mercy of nature, I only seemed capable of making a miserable attempt at conceiving what it was that my roommate got up to when he banished me from the sitting room. 

At the least, I thought idly, someone was getting some enjoyment out of the paper; Suleviae had curled herself neatly over the article I had at one time been attempting to read, and was currently perusing a story on some sort of scandal involving a Muscovite chemist. The moment she sensed my gaze finally leaving the window, however, she abandoned the article to regard me, cocking her tawny head. 

"Correct me if I am wrong," she intoned, a trifle reproachfully, "but I seem to remember you saying something of note yesterday. Something quite along the lines of, 'Suleviae, I swear, if he sends us up here again tomorrow, I shall ask him what it is he needs the sitting room so damn much for.'"

I sighed. Not for the first time, I wondered if others had daemons so obstinate; and if so, how mankind had ever survived thus far. Nevertheless, she was as infuriatingly correct as ever--I had told her that exact thing yesterday afternoon, and, much to my consternation, I had been quite serious. I rubbed the back of my neck, vexed at my own inaction. "I realize that, Sul. But I should like to defend myself--it's not as if Sherlock Holmes is a man who volunteers information readily. I couldn't go about haphazardly interrogating him, it could end with us wandering London once more, looking for new rooms." 

Suleviae shook her head, but she sinuously uncurled her mongoose body to trot closer and rest her head on my hand. Doing so, she peered up at me. "I may not be a terrifically thorough judge of character, and you know that daemon of his probably infuriates me twice as much as the man befuddles you," and here, I had to laugh--I at least knew Sherlock Holmes' name, but neither he nor his kestrel daemon had yet been forthcoming with the latter's, "but I shouldn't think he would do such a thing." 

I smiled down at her, scratching idly behind her ears. 

"Perhaps you are right," I volunteered eventually; she was hopelessly optimistic at all times, but I was glad to at least have her company.

"Of course I'm right. After all, where ever would he find another roommate as easy to bully about as you?" 

I lifted my hand away from her head, and she laughed. 

"Really, Sul. You drive a sick man to death's door," I chided, and she chuckled again, but curled more tightly around my hand. 

There were many things Suleviae and I had never voiced to one another, things which made me quite thankful for this strange and inexplicable connection that we humans share with our daemons, difficult as they may be. 

The actions of my orderly, Murray, and my injury and subsequent illness had left us both shaken and unwilling to speak of it. While there is rarely a human who can stand to be much further than a few yards from his or her daemon, since our experiences in India, Suleviae and I were more sensitive to separation than most. Daily, I was glad for the fact that she had settled in such a small and companionable form, and not on the forms she would often take when we were children, back when she was more often happy as a lioness than not. I only hoped that my new roommate--whose own daemon would perch halfway across the sitting room, and seemed to only come into contact with Sherlock Holmes but rarely--did not notice my childish reluctance to let Suleviae stray from my shoulder. 

I was only comforted in the fact that she was just as unwilling to move away from me. 

Her nervousness only lasted a few minutes--it was rare for Suleviae to be serious for long. She soon scurried across the desk once more, and gazed thoughtfully out the window before speaking.

"Do you fancy that damn Yard terrier knows his name?"

The choice in topic was unsurprising--friendless and unoccupied as we were, we found ourselves discussing our new roommates far more than was proper. The daemon was most curious, and their relationship seemed, at times, quite atypical of most human-daemon relations. 

To begin with, Holmes' daemon was male. It is true that, in my travels, I have met a few individuals with daemons of the same gender--including a particularly beguiling woman with a beautiful female egret in New Holland--but it was such an exceedingly uncommon occurrence as to fuel our curiosity. Like the woman in New Holland, my roommate was more than a touch aloof, and we wondered often about any correlation. The fact that the daemon kept so stringently to himself was of some vexation to Suleviae, as well--as I had stated earlier, she did not even know his name (although she was often happy to opine that, had Stamford not introduced Holmes by name to me, neither would we know his). Indeed, we would not have even known that he was male, were kestrels not so distinctly patterned. 

The matter of their interactions was also of some debate to us. We had, on a number of occasions, overheard the kestrel address Sherlock Holmes by his surname. I at first believed this to be due to some excessive sense of propriety on their parts--unusual, to be sure, as most daemons presume that other humans are not terribly interested in a daemon's words to his or her companion. However, there was an occasion when I am absolutely certain neither Holmes nor the kestrel knew we were on the stair before the sitting room, and the kestrel still addressed him thus. Such formality between a human and a daemon is nearly unheard of, and, when compounded with their ability to be apart for extended stretches of time, it made it seem as if the two were not connected at all.

Despite the fact that the daemon was a topic we had been over countless times, I could not help but be amused at her question. Leaning back in my chair, I queried, "Why? Is there some amorous intrigue I should be made aware of?" 

She bristled her tail at that. "I shall pretend I did not hear something so preposterous." 

It was a comment she meant, I am certain, as a joke. However, I could hear the tone of regret--and perhaps of reproach at my actions--in her voice, and I reached out and stroked down her long back. "Suleviae, it is not as if I intended either to be wounded, or fall ill after." 

I felt her sigh under my hand. While in India, she had formed a particular friendship with my orderly Murray's daemon, a dachshund. Merely a friendship, and Murray and I did not stray beyond what is proper for two Army men, but the daemons were indeed quite close, and made for an amusing sight when they curled near one another to talk. However, our separation was made the more painful when I was injured in battle; for, while I have publicly told of how Murray bravely threw me across his pack-horse, he also had to physically lift Suleviae from the field where she lay some feet off. At the time, Suleviae was unconscious, and I was too consumed with pain to remember exactly what occurred, but when we came to, it was obvious that something had changed between the four of us. 

I feared that Suleviae would never forgive me for ignoring this change. At the time, however, I could only think of my own pain, and of the ruin exposure would bring should Murray and I become closer, or should someone find out that he had held Suleviae to himself as he rode back over to British lines. Although it was the illness that forced my return to England, Suleviae did not speak to me for some time upon our return, knowing as she did that it was never my intention to reciprocate any feelings Murray had for me. 

After a moment, she seemed to collect herself, and scurried easily upon my shoulder. I returned to attempting to read the paper, but soon found my mind straying once more to our unusual banishment. 

"He has been at whatever he is doing for over two hours, now. Do you suppose he's just forgotten us up here?" 

"Perhaps if you had asked as you said you would..."

"Suleviae. I may as well ask you to go down there and just listen in, for all the good asking would do." 

In a flash, she had jumped off my shoulder and onto the desk. 

"That," she exclaimed, "Is the first intelligent thing you have said since we arrived in London! It is perfect, John. I shall just..."

Knowing full well where this was going, I lunged to grab her, and cursed as she jumped away. "Suleviae, please. You 'shall just' nothing! You can't go about spying on our roommates--it isn't..."

"Not proper, I know. Come, John, if you just stand at the door, I can slip down the stair. It shouldn't be too great a distance."

She had already run to the door, and feeling a wave of discomfort at being separated thus, I reluctantly stood to approach the door. If I did not fear making a racket doing so, and were I not so curious about what was going on below, I would have made a lunge for Suleviae then. But as it stood, I felt compelled to follow along with her plan, as much as I loathed to think of what Sherlock Holmes would do should he discover us. 

When I joined her at the door, she peered excitedly up at me, "This may be further than we've been apart for some time, but I don't think it's too far," she mused, before bending her head low to peek underneath the door. In an off-hand tone, she added, "I know you have wanted to cling to me less, anyway, so this should be a good exercise." 

Sighing, I queried down at her, "What would you have me do?" 

"Just open the door, just a crack. And stay as close as you'll dare. I shan't be long," she promised. 

It was madness, but I opened the door nonetheless. She slipped through the slight gap, and sat on the second step down to look back at me. "Don't worry about it, John," she advised. With that, she was scurrying noiselessly down the stair, towards the door below that lead to the sitting room.

I thought it was just as well for her to give such advice; she was not the one who would be blamed for this. Further, should she pull too hard at our bond, it would be I who would give in and move down a step or two, risking our exposure. I felt as comfortable as could be expected as she crept down the stairs, but as she turned the corner towards the sitting room door, I felt the disquieting tug on our connection. Breathing deeply, I waited--she should feel this discomfort, and reassess her absurd plan. Soon enough, however, the strain ceased increasing and evened out to a constant hum. She had reached the door then, and was correct; the distance was not too far after all. But it was a slim thing, and I leaned against the door in agitation. Damn that mongoose. 

There is no way to be certain how long she was down there. It felt as if hours went by due to the pain of separation, yet when I think back on it, it seems as if she had been away for mere seconds before I felt a startling surge of adrenaline and a prickling of pain down my side. She came rushing up the stairs, and leapt into my arms in a flurry of rust-coloured fur. I felt a great wave of relief at reestablishing contact with her, but I was not at all happy with her actions, and demanded in a furious whisper, "What the devil went on down there?"

Suleviae was still bristling as she replied, "That damn kestrel... They were just showing a gyptian out, and I was waiting to see if I couldn't hear one of them say something about why there was a gyptian in the sitting room at all. But they said nothing, and... Well, how was I to know they'd open the door? That kestrel just dove at me!"

"You should have expected that," I hissed. It was then I could hear Holmes ascending the stair, and I braced myself for the inevitable altercation my daemon had forced upon me.

"Well, I got a good scratch into his side for measure," she added smugly, as she moved up to perch on my shoulder. I winced--it was no wonder Sherlock Holmes did not come immediately up, for my daemon had been mauling his. It seemed as if there was just no end to my misery that afternoon. 

Resigned to look for new rooms that very evening, I opened the door for Holmes as he came up. His daemon was resting upon his shoulder, as well, and seemed unhurt and not terribly perturbed. The kestrel was, however, most assuredly watching Suleviae with an air of caution; perhaps he had not honestly expected a fight out of her on the landing.

I had been prepared to immediately launch into my apology, but Sherlock Holmes began speaking before I could.

"Doctor Watson, I fear I have been trying you," and here his eyes flickered briefly to Suleviae, who I could sense was pointedly looking at him and not his daemon, "These past few days have been most irregular. As you know, I am not usually blessed with quite so much business, and I promise I shall not be demanding the sitting room on such a basis any longer." 

"That is unnecessary, Holmes. I understand that you need such an area to speak with your clients," I reassured. 

To myself, I added, "as unkempt and irregular as they may be." I wished dearly to voice the question on what it was he did with these clients, and who they were--however, after Suleviae's actions, any questions I had would only be even more impertinent. 

"Nevertheless," he continued, "It is presumptuous of me. You did not sign on to only have a bedroom here, after all; and I should imagine it has all been quite intolerable without any explanation."

I could feel Suleviae tense slightly in excitement, and, though I knew I would not hear the end of it from her should he reveal his dealings to us after her stunt, I also eagerly awaited the explanation he alluded to.

It did not arrive. 

Instead, after a moment of uncomfortable silence, Holmes only remarked, "Well, Watson, I can only apologize again. You are quite free to roam the sitting room as you please, now." 

He looked at me for a moment, as if considering to say something more, but only turned to descend the stair, his kestrel daemon flapping his wings once in what seemed to be some inexplicable gesture of agitation. 

Though I was glad he had made no reference to either our gross lack of respect for his privacy, or to the altercation between our daemons--which he most certainly felt more than myself--the entire interaction left me more in the dark about the nature of his character than I was that morning. 

I could think of nothing to say in reply as I watched Holmes and his inscrutable daemon leave, and it was some time before I collected myself enough to join them in the sitting room.


End file.
